


such a shining name as Virus

by PikaCheeka



Category: DRAMAtical Murder (Visual Novel), DRAMAtical Murder - All Media Types
Genre: Biting, Clothed Sex, Finger Sucking, M/M, more or less
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-06-02 23:07:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6586531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PikaCheeka/pseuds/PikaCheeka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trip has an unseemly fascination with Virus' fingers. </p><p>--<br/>He has been thinking about those fingers all day. It isn’t an uncontrollable thought, because he never made any attempt to stop thinking about them. They are simply there, floating on the peripherals of his vision, tantalizing him with their vibrant and violent taste that slides across his skin at night and makes the world echo in the shining clarity that is Virus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	such a shining name as Virus

**Author's Note:**

> This is for acatfeet, king, and known, who together gave me the prompts & details for this and who have been feeding my ViTri needs and are all very awesome.
> 
> I should point out too that while there is no actual vomiting, it is mentioned. Otherwise just general not-safe-for-work ViTri. Also worth pointing out that they are nineteen and twenty-five here so you can imagine what kind of wild outfits they are wearing.

 Virus is left-handed. It was one of the first things Trip had seen, beyond the eyes and the viciously clear white and the parting of the smog that consumed his world, the deftness of the hand he had never paid much attention to before he met Virus, before he looked at himself in the mirror and examined his own left hand and licked his fingers and learned that there would be this irrevocable difference between them. He found early on that he liked that. Because Virus’ left hand was _sublime_. Because Virus’ left hand introduced him to the taste of that unique sweat found only in the whorls of the fingertips.

He has been thinking about those fingers all day. It isn’t an uncontrollable thought, because he never made any attempt to _stop_ thinking about them. They are simply there, floating on the peripherals of his vision, tantalizing him with their vibrant and violent taste that slides across his skin at night and makes the world echo in the shining clarity that is Virus. They contented him throughout the day, plodding their route and checking up on a few dealers, listening to Virus interrogate someone, watching those long fingers twitch _just so_ when the bills didn’t add up as they ought to, seeing the dealer’s face tighten in fear when he saw Virus’ smile, stepping forward himself and making sure it wouldn’t happen again, stopping at the crepe parlor after cleaning the blood off his hands, devouring his piece of birthday cake for reaching nineteen while Virus sighed and sucked down ice water, throat twitching to the time of the whiteness of his fingers, so beautifully unaware of what passed through Trip’s mind. All in all it had been a good day, dreaming about the sweat special to Virus’ fingertips, the way he tasted different when Trip caught him by surprise. But now the day was over and they are home, and he sits silently on the couch they had sex on only yesterday and watches Virus continue to work and thinks about his left hand.

He works too much, always eager to jump on his Coil and clear everything up the moment he gets home, but it doesn’t bother Trip. There have been times when he joked with him over it, when Virus would shrug and say he was lazy or needed to work on his attention span while the younger of the two would mutter obscene suggestions in his ear that more often than not would be followed through. But now is not the time to interrupt him and Trip is content to merely watch him, humming softly to himself as he stretches and glances momentarily at his own hands, bruises across the knuckles from work. Virus doesn’t have them, though Trip remembers a time when he did; his breath hitches as he hums a little more loudly now and closes his eyes and remembers when -

“Trip.” The word is at once sharp and white in the way it rolls through the air, and Trip knows the smile that accompanies it with his eyes closed.

“Yeee..aaah?” He speaks not in words but in syllables, tilting his head up and rolling his tongue without opening his eyes. He isn’t ready to look at that smile yet, not until he feels it fully envelop him.

“You were looking at my fingers all day again.”

Trip cracks an eye now, so narrowly he can see his own eyelashes, thick and dark and crooked from sleeping with his face in the pillow or in Virus’ neck night after night. He’s tried to count them before during meetings but it’s never been a successful endeavor. Just something to do while listening to static. He didn’t know Virus had noticed him watching, but it doesn’t surprise him. It’s even arousing, thinking perhaps he, too, danced on the edges of Virus’ peripheral vision and in the depths of the lust he keeps buried in his veins during the day. But he only shrugs. “I like them.”

And Virus advances, sliding out of his chair with the same sound his Allmate makes when it drops to the floor in the mornings, a soft rustle and cold click, and Trip snaps his eyes fully open now to watch the way his thighs move. And suddenly he thinks of his second-favorite Virus taste, almost as good as his fingertips. The taste of his skin just where his thigh meets his crotch, where he’d buried his face the day before on this very couch moments before he fucked him into it until he screamed. He runs his tongue over his upper lip at the memory of the _noises_ he had made and finally lets his eyes rest upon that smile he knows so well, and the static around him fades to a soft nothing as he settles on those teeth. A jolt shoots through him, liquid heat in the base of his spine.

He stops just in front of Trip, one knee poised on the couch, those divine fingers laced together and hidden behind his back, hips pushed forward in a way the younger man recognizes well. For the barest of moments he thinks about grabbing him by those hips, throwing him to the floor and grinding against him until his breathing gets hot– but he’s curious about why Virus is being so slow, so quiet, and he’s thinking about those fingers, so he waits.

And Virus is _so_ slow, _so_ quiet, a gentle silence in the maelstrom, as he unlaces his fingers and raises his right hand to stroke Trip’s hair a moment. His touch is delicate, infuriatingly so, and Trip finds himself leaning into it, rolling his head back and arching his neck in such a way his shoulder blades make a pleasant crunch he can feel down his back. It’s only the right hand though, and it’s the left that he dreams of.

“Your roots are starting to show again.” A slight tug of his hair as Virus’ weight shifts and he leans forward slightly.

Trip opens his mouth to reply, with what he doesn’t even know although he’s sure the right thing will come out, but he never gets the chance to speak. Because Virus makes his move them, snapping into motion in one fluid and brutal moment, and he is suddenly beside him and on him and _in_ him all at once. It surprises Trip, this sudden viciousness, and the knowledge that Virus can still catch him off guard after all these years sends a thrill down his spine that snaps white-hot in his fingertips and behind his eyes as he shudders against the body now beside him on the couch, the hand jerking his head back and twisting in his hair, and the fingers.

_The fingers._

Only the middle two, long and thin and cold and white pressing his tongue down. A searing burn on the roof of his mouth where nails had scraped in Virus’ eagerness for a swift entry. Pressure forcing his jaw open and a thumb under his chin digging into his skin. He can taste his sweat, his heartbeat, his _essence_ , vicious and clinical and pure, in those fingertips.

He remembers the first time Virus had ever shoved his fingers into his mouth, back at the institute, when the older boy had overheard what new drug they had just given him and he’d swiftly and calmly held Trip over the sink and forced him to vomit up the pills. _That one’s no good. Trust me._ Was all he had said. And Trip had trusted him, inexplicably and with all of his being, when Virus had prized his jaws open and rammed his fingers into the back of his throat repeatedly. He’d been surprised then, too, and even more surprised when he was violently ill while Virus touched his shoulders and asked if there had only been four pills or were there more. He’d groaned and gestured that that were all, turning spread hands facing down at the wrist several times. That night a kid in his classification had died, and the two of them had slipped out of their ward and gone down into the basement to look in the incinerator they weren’t supposed to know about, the fingers of Virus’ left hand twitching ever so slightly as Trip watched not the flames but the other boy. It was the first and only time Virus had ever told him to trust him, but Trip had begun long before that moment and simply never stopped.

He remembers this and gags suddenly, fingers scrabbling against the leather of the couch to find Virus’ thigh, drool running from the corners of his mouth as he begins to over-salivate at the memory. It hadn’t been only once either, but over a dozen times that year, and more than once after that, when they were bored and curious about how much abuse the human throat could handle. Trip didn’t think he liked it, and the memory is making him uncomfortable.

But Virus clicks his tongue and lowers his chin looks at him over the edge of his glasses, an infinitesimal warning, and Trip swallows hard, fighting back the urge to be sick because he _trusts_. It isn’t as if he isn’t used to Virus, various parts of him, shoved deep against the back of his throat, after all, and with that soft white noise resonating in the air around him he relaxes.

“That’s better, isn’t it.” He smiles as he speaks, and Trip shudders as he feels it envelop him, feels the smile seep into his veins and cause his pants to tighten still further.

Trip jerks his fist up once instead of nodding, curling his tongue around the fingers in his mouth and looking expectantly at the other man, and Virus immediately obliges. He’s fast, thrusting his fingers in and out several times in rapid succession, dancing over lips in a way that is at once brutal and delicate and provocative before plunging them deep into his mouth. Still only two, only two, even though he’d used more than that in other ways last week and Trip wants more, wants to feel his mouth painfully filled by all that is Virus, wants to feel those nails scrape against the back of his throat and dig under his tongue and force him to struggle for air and _release_ and – he grabs at the front of his pants then, belt unbuckled in one swift motion before the fingers suddenly stop.

“Keep it in your pants.” He’s still smiling as he speaks, but the warning in his voice is stronger now.

So Trip bites him, not enough to bleed but enough to leave marks, and moans softly when he sees the older man’s eyes flash and darken in an increasing need of his own. He knows he can come just from these fingers alone, knows he can come from nearly anything Virus does to him. Yes, that tapered whiteness in his mouth now, massaging his tongue as he gently clenches his teeth, is more than enough. He grins and removes his hand slowly from his own crotch to place it over the older man’s stomach, muscles tightening beneath his fingers for the barest of moments before he relaxes again. Trip keeps his hand there, twitching in the expensive fabric as a third finger is shoved into his mouth and he opens his jaw so wide he feels the pop in his skull and in his groin where the peculiar and distinct taste that is Virus’ fingers pools and erupts.

“You drool a lot,” Virus observes, neither exasperated nor amused but somewhere in the middle, a peculiar ridge in the range of human emotion unique to Virus’ sexual observations of Trip. There’s a lilt in his voice when he speaks this way that Trip has never heard him use with another, a fluctuation he knows is his and his alone because of how violently his body reacts to it, and he thrums and moans low in his throat. When he rolls his hips forward, presses his crotch against Virus’ thigh, the older man makes no move to push him back, only twists his fingers in such a way that drives Trip to buck into him.

He’s making noise in his ear now, breathing slowly, lightly, deliberately against the side of his face and neck and throat, attenuations of voice in the undercurrent that Trip can never quite make out. In all their years of intimacy, he’d never been able to ascertain what, if anything, Virus said in those moments, voice changing to a soft _hiss_ , white noise he could feel crawl over his skin and seep into his veins and pool in his belly as it devours him.

Trip never asks what he says though. He only ruts against his leg, hard and damp and desperate, Virus reacting by tightening his muscles, pushing his thigh up into his crotch to meet his every thrust. _He’s nice like that_ , so often giving in, only able to watch Trip’s lust for so long before needing to partake in it. Trip groans again, feeling the change come over him, the fingers in his mouth shaking now as Virus finally, _finally_ lowers his eyelids and his breath changes to a wet heat against his face. So Trip continues to thrust up against him, grinding hard against his thigh, twisting his hand to wrap around the older man’s hip and pull him closer still, as close as he dares now that he is distracted. He wants to fuck him, crawl between his thighs and make him scream, but the night is long and right now all that matters are the _four_ fingers in his mouth, coiling around his tongue, scratching the roof of his mouth bloody, filling his brain with the taste of the sweat in the whorls of his fingertips, and the thumb digging up under his chin as Virus thrusts in hard. Trip thrums around him, that sublime white edging the corners of his vision as Virus goes deeper, _deeper_ still, and he imagines the older man crawling inside of him and taking root in his bones, seeping into his marrow and sparking through his blood and bringing the world to a pristine silence devoid of all but the soft white noise that drew him from the mud and filth and gave him a reason all those years ago. Apt that such a cruelly, sublimely invasive being would have such a shining name as _Virus_ , and with that Trip’s world evaporates. Trip bites again when he comes, jaw closing with an audible snap at the precise moment that Virus jerks his hand back, strings of saliva binding them together as he rides out his orgasm.

“Good now?” Virus strokes his hair lazily as he speaks, his own arousal glistening in his eyes, content to wait and to watch.

Trip doesn’t reply immediately, only struggles to breathe, truly breathe for the first time in ten minutes, face in Virus’ shoulder as he jerks his hips forward once, twice more and works his tired jaw a moment. “I like your fingers,” he finally gasps, avoiding an explicit answer because he wants his possibilities open.

But Virus is compliant tonight, because he ghosts his pale fingers, dripping with saliva, down Trip’s throat, down _down_ until he lays them to rest on his damp groin. And he grins. “We’ll finish later.” Each word is a gentle tap driving him to attention.

Floating on the peripherals of his vision are those fingers with their vibrant and violent taste that slides across his skin and make the world echo in the clarity that is Virus. The night is vast and Trip smiles.


End file.
